


Miracle on Ice

by primeideal



Category: The Divine Cities Series - Robert Jackson Bennett
Genre: Canon-typical language, Gen, Post-Canon, Yuletide 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Part of Mulaghesh wonders how much Ghaladesh counts as the world. The world, in its vastness, calls to mind the small-minded squabbles of highland Voortyashtan, the areas of Bulikov cordoned off after the Blink, the humid isolation of Javrat.Yet Ghaladesh is changing every day.





	Miracle on Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalmatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/gifts).



> Thanks to Isis for betaing!

Every high-ranking member of Parliament has offices that reflect their interests. Elegant maps adorn the walls of Harthan Korta. Machsoud Sharn has an experimental device that produces text without a pen. Sengil Ufadda has comfortable chairs to offer his visitors, while he prefers to stand at his desk.

As for Turyin Mulaghesh, she has a wine rack in one corner to relax herself after a long workday full of unexpected occurrences. Against the opposite wall, there’s a novel electrical icebox that keeps all manner of foods and beverages cool. Mulaghesh doesn’t find it particularly useful, but many of her guests seem to appreciate it. And she’s certainly willing to tolerate another newfangled contraption in exchange for making her fellow citizens—and international guests—slightly more at ease during casework.

The young man in front of her, Orviar Jilkist, is pale even for a Dreyling. He shivers in his seat while Mulaghesh goes through the formalities. “May I offer you a drink?” she asks.

“No thank you,” says Jilkist.

“All right,” says Mulaghesh. “What seems to be the issue?”

She still handles her own cases every once in a while, but since she’s come to oversee so many departments, most of the issues that cross her desk are referred to by underlings in Saypur and overseas. If Jilkist has been sent to her, then it’s not one of the more standard categories—legal trouble, cults of personality, international relations—that a subordinate can handle. The remote-window operators are on strike, and technology hasn’t devised a good substitute for long-distance communication, so he’s come all the way from the UDS to seek her help.

“Well,” Jilkist says, “every so often I do things that...that aren’t...”

“Supernatural things,” Mulaghesh says briskly. It’s as unspecific as they come, but it makes some people feel better than “Divine.”

Offering appetizers, coddling strangers with word choice. When did she get to be so far from the battlefield?

Yet Mulaghesh knows she wouldn’t have it any other way. Half the idiots in Parliament are too scared of supernatural phenomena to want anything to do with her department, and the other half aren’t scared _enough_. They would remake the world, given a chance, like so many had tried before them. And that cannot be. For better or for worse, the world’s best hope is its people—all of them.

“Yes,” says Jilkist. “Uh, maybe I’ll have a drink, if you don’t mind. Telp?”

Wordlessly, Mulaghesh rises, finding the chilled bottle and pouring it into a glass with her prosthetic hand. The new fizzy concoction, a hit in Ghaladesh by way of Jukoshtan, tastes foul to her. But the young people like it, those who don’t prefer stronger drinks.

“Thank you! This is a bit strange, but—could I have another glass? For ice?”

It’s an odd request, but far from the strangest one Mulaghesh has heard. She produces another glass, chips at the ready. Apparently, if Sharn’s legal headaches are anything to go by, some Taalhavrashtani company is seeking a patent for a machine that forms ice into regular blocks. The mercantile instinct knows no bounds.

She hands the second glass over, as Jilkist takes a long swig of Telp. “I appreciate it,” he says, then takes the second glass in hand. “It started a few weeks ago. Winter came early, and...” He shakes the glass, swirling it around quietly. “Things were changing. Around me.”

He takes another sip. Mulaghesh hears the second cup before she sees anything peculiar, or rather, doesn’t hear it. The pieces of ice should be knocking and clinking against the side of the glass, but there is only silence, and Jilkist’s uncertain stare. The ice has already melted into a few inches of tepid water.

“Has anyone been hurt?” she asks. “By these events?”

Separate the miracles from their agent: another guideline she’s kept in mind. At some point she really needs to write this down for whoever is stuck with her job in the future, but that feels too much like letting General Noor convince her to write useless memoirs, and she refuses to give him the satisfaction.

“No,” says Jilkist. “I just want it to stop.”

“Stop?” Mulaghesh echoes. “Why?”

“Well...” He squints, as if he had not prepared himself for this conversation. “It doesn’t do any good.”

“The Divinities often did great harm with their abilities. You should know that power is no guarantee of wisdom.”

“But I don’t want it,” Jilkist repeats.

“You’re the one with the power, not me,” Mulaghesh says. “I’m just a f—a bureaucrat. If you think I can exorcise you or something, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“You’re the expert,” Jilkist says, and Mulaghesh silently curses everyone who _should_ have been the experts for dying and leaving her here with this. Well, maybe not Vinya Komayd. Good riddance to her.

“Surely someone has had this problem before?”

Mulaghesh considers it. People have come to her because they wanted to get out of trouble with the law, to earn a fair wage for their services, to be safe from unscrupulous charlatans. But as far as she knows, Jilkist is the first person to approach her with a tiny miracle that he’d rather wasn’t there.

“Miracles,” she says, “are like living things. They can grow and change. All you’re doing is...warming things up, right? Providing heat. Maybe if you will it strongly enough, you can redirect that heat into something else.”

Jilkist regards her dubiously, then stares down at the table as if he’s going to set it on fire with the power of his mind alone. Well, let him. The decoration is too fussy for her, anyway.

Discreetly, she moves her cane behind her chair so that if a conflagration does erupt, it won’t be _immediately_ consumed. But nothing happens, and Jilkist merely drinks some more Telp.

“Uh, thank you very much for your time,” he says. “I’ll be seeing you. Well, hopefully I won’t, but you know...” He breaks off and shakes her hand of flesh, frail but firm in his strong grip.

And then he departs, and that, Mulaghesh assumes, is the end of it. Not the most useful meeting, but it could be worse. Better than fucking briefings.

* * *

When Jilkist returns to Mulaghesh’ office a few weeks later, his fingers lightly bandaged, it takes her a few moments to remember who he is. Of course, he’s too Dreyling to be one of her earnest interns. For all Shara and her comrades had sounded the horn of fuller democratic participation and self-governance and a bunch of other nice-sounding words, Saypuris still tended to hire their own.

But once she’s checked her schedule and ensured that no, she doesn’t have to pose with some do-gooders to get her image captured by a technological box that will put it in another newspaper for some absurd reason, she recalls his hesitant first appearance. “Welcome back,” she says. “I take it things didn’t work out?”

“Not...exactly,” he says, taking a seat. “I tried to focus, for a while. On moving heat around me. At first I got a headache, or just crossed my eyes...”

Mulaghesh tries to listen intently, even while part of her is imagining Voortya crossing her eyes in irritation as she figured out how to manipulate the world. Maybe it would have been better if the original Divinities had been a little more fucking distracted.

“And then things started getting _too_ hot,” he said. “I destroyed a plate of lautvisse, it just kind of...all melted together, the fish and the plate alike. Got a fever, burnt a couple fingers, and when the doctor asked how, I didn’t really know what to say.”

Mulaghesh, who has been forced to sample lautvisse during diplomatic dinners with Hild, privately does not consider the first situation any great loss, but snaps to attention on the second. “Have you been treated here? Some of the, ah, supernatural healers are very adept at responding to unusual injuries.”

In a way, the unexpected doctors have the kind of ability Jilkist envies: the power to restore things as they were, rather than altering them. But while a few patches of skin or coughing up drekels might be a minor inconvenience, or boon, for an individual, the world keeps on changing, and no doctor can remedy that.

“It started healing on its own. Not, uh, strangely. Just after a while. I stopped drinking for a few days, and then it went back to how it was before—only changing the ice, not the rest.”

“You stopped drinking for a few days? What did you survive on?”

“Water, I mean. Made do with stale Telp.”

Before he can offend by asking, Mulaghesh fetches him a glass, which he quickly downs. She almost misses being the minority leader at times; at least the other bigwigs she had to socialize with treated her as an equal, not put her up on a fucking pedestal.

“Thanks,” he burps. “Anyway, what should I do now?”

He is as young and willing to listen as too many soldiers she remembers, their faces rushing through her mind and then fading into silence. “You said that avoiding water seemed to help?”

“A little. With the new fires, at least.”

“Where do you live?”

“Um, in Kjervade.”

“That doesn’t mean a f-anything specific to me. What region?”

“Eastern region, near the island of Grudsholn.”

“Near the coast?”

“Everything’s near the coast.”

“Nearer to the coast than some regions?”

“I reckon so.”

“Would it be possible for you to spend some more time inland?” she says. “Steering clear of the ocean entirely might make it less frequent.”

“I think so,” he says. “I have a cousin, in Stalpred...”

“Only if it would be feasible with your job,” Mulaghesh rushes to add. “I don’t think any extra stress would be good for you.”

“I’ll try,” says Jilkist. “My boyfriend, he always teases me about having seen so little of the world. Well, now I’ve been to Ghaladesh _twice_ , so there!”

Part of Mulaghesh wonders how much Ghaladesh counts as the world. The world, in its vastness, calls to mind the small-minded squabbles of highland Voortyashtan, the areas of Bulikov cordoned off after the Blink, the humid isolation of Javrat.

Yet Ghaladesh is changing every day. New subways bind the government centers to her childhood neighborhood, and tiny miracles dot every ward. The cats that hover in midair near Kauvil Avenue, the fountain of wine off of Darbla Street. There is plenty to see for a Dreyling who has travelled far to visit. But of course, his homelands are just as strange and as restless.

* * *

The next time Mulaghesh hears from Jilkist, it’s by post.

_Would you happen to know if there is any financial support for people in my situation? I am thinking about moving to the Continent, but I don’t know where to start looking for a job._

“It was addressed directly to you,” explains one of her assistants, apologetically. “Normally we’d just toss it into the main stack, but...”

“That’s all right,” says Mulaghesh, wondering how she’s going to translate _what the fuck do you think you’re going to do on the fucking Continent_ into diplomatese.

Eventually, another assistant comes up with _In some circumstances there may be funding, but don’t count on it. Why do you ask?_

 _I stayed with my cousin in Stalpred for a few months and that helped_ , he replies. _The miracles didn’t go away, but they did happen less often. But then winter came, and there’s no avoiding snow in the UDS no matter how far I go. I assume that Saypur would be much like the islands—too many coasts, the ocean too near—but maybe on the Continent I could keep it at bay? If I was far enough inland, away from the river?_

Mulaghesh heaves a sigh. Why does he persist in appealing to her? She has unwoven miracles, yes, but against or absent the will of those who first created them. She knows how to fight, in war or in governance alike—not aid someone trying to relinquish a power he never chose.

Perhaps she should ignore him? Leave him to feel abandoned, and angry at her? Maybe then she could be more effective: the opposition, not an ally.

But in the meantime no doubt he’ll have stowed away to the Continent on his own, and then who knows if she’ll ever track him down without the assistance of some miraculous locator. No, she can spare the time to pen a response.

_I do not believe this would be possible, my apologies. There is still so much we do not know about miracles and how they work that uprooting you on a whim seems too questionable to invest in. And I assume you don’t want to be some case study, endlessly analyzed down here!_

She pauses, then pages another underling. It’s a ridiculous idea, but so are most of the meetings they make her sit through. They can accommodate her, this time.

So after forms are stamped and the first round of permissions granted, she adds, _Would you be interested in having me, or another agency representative, coming to visit you? We might be able to better understand your concerns if we can see you_ _i_ _n your own territory, so to speak._

When Jilkist writes back with his eager approval, there are yet more boxes to initial. But she does not take no for an answer, and soon finds herself on a boat heading towards Grudsholn.

Mulaghesh has become a much more accomplished seafarer in recent decades, but she also has to commend modern shipwrights’ talents. Not only does the voyage take much less time than it would have in the past, which gives her fewer opportunities to heave, but it’s smoother, too.

Even before they make landfall, she realizes Jilkist’s predicament. Snow is piled up in heaps on the edges of the docks, and new flakes melt as they hit the paved roads by night. Her driver seems overly fussy helping Mulaghesh into the car and stowing her cane in the trunk, as if afraid to cause a diplomatic incident, but speeds down the roads as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

Mulaghesh immediately knows which house is Jilkist’s even before the car stops. Below the streetlights, each of his neighbors have dutifully shovelled paths from their doors to the street, depositing the leftover snow in drifts in their yards. Jilkist’s yard, however, has only a large, irregular patch of dead grass.

She accepts the driver’s help in hauling her luggage to the door, and Jilkist greets her anxiously. “Are you sure you don’t want a hotel? I mean, here is fine, but it’s no place for a distinguished Minister.”

“I’ve seen enough of hotels,” Mulaghesh mutters, and he’s too young to think anything of it.

Her dreams are strange, as they are every night in a new place, but not disturbing, and that is all she can ask for.

“So, I’d give you a demonstration,” Jilkist offers the next morning, “but I suppose you’ve already seen the lawn.”

Mulaghesh, taking another spoonful of the tasteless porridge on offer, nods. “If you don’t mind, could you show me around the area?”

“There’s not much to see.”

“I’m not a tourist,” she snaps. “I want to see the places you know, where you grew up.”

“You think one of them is causing this?”

 _No I fucking don’t_ , thinks Mulaghesh. “I think it will help me get more information.”

Jilkist shrugs obligingly. “Might want to wear a coat.”

Of course, she does, but it feels superfluous in his heated car. A few minutes’ drive reveals an off-white building with an old, rusted jungle gym outside. A loud group of children are ignoring the slides and swings in favor of chasing each other down a snowy hill.

“Where I went to school,” Jilkist indicates, without getting out.

“What was it like?” Mulaghesh asks. She’s not sure what she’s looking for. The way he sounds when he’s in his element, perhaps?

“The teachers were always kind, very well-educated people. But we couldn’t afford much in the way of new textbooks. We only learned a little about the southlands, and there was hardly any Saypuri history after Thinadeshi.”

“I see.” The children giggle as they slip on icy patches, blind to the strangers driving by. “Do you have family in the area?”

“Not anymore. My older sister works at a radio station in Prygor, and my parents moved down to Elsquind a few years ago.”

“What did they do when you were growing up?”

“They both worked at a hardware store across town. I can show you.” Jilkist speeds off, but quickly makes a U-turn on one of the larger streets. “This wasn’t under construction then...”

The sky out the window is gray, but there is no further precipitation on the day. Pedestrians turn their faces at corners, trying to face away from the wind, and a few even walk backwards on quiet streets.

“There.” Jilkist nods at a storefront named _Triel’s_. “Weren’t as many electric bulbs for sale. Mom kept yelling at Grinta and me, that we’d break them if we played with them, but now they’re no big deal.”

Mulaghesh takes it in. “I see. Did you help around the store?”

“Not really. Sometimes if I was bored Dad would take me over and I’d ‘get’ to sweep, but I saw through that pretty quick.”

“What did you do for fun, then?”

“Play cambuck on the lake, usually.”

“The lake?”

“It has a name, Lake Franiff, but it’s just...a lake.”

“Can I see?”

“I guess,” says Jilkist, slowly backing up. “Walked there more than I drove, so this could take a while.”

 _This fucking village isn’t that big,_ Mulaghesh considers, but lets him maneuver. The car’s exhaust—or Jilkist’s miracle—evaporates the slush behind them as they wind back through town.

There are no children on Lake Franiff, though a few older women seem to be fishing through holes in the ice. Jilkist keeps his distance.

“So,” says Mulaghesh. “Cambuck?”

“You know. Run around on the ice. Hit balls at people.”

“Somehow I missed this in my briefings,” Mulaghesh notes. “Like field hockey?” She doesn’t understand the appeal, but it’s another fad among Telp-sipping Saypuri youth.

“Sort of. Without the...field.”

“Were you any good?”

“We were kids,” Jilkist says, his voice tense. “Does this look like the kind of place that would have a giant scoreboard?”

“It must have meant something to you. At the time.”

“At the time? Sure. One of my friends got his nose broken. My cousin came down to visit, said he could run rings around us, we showed him up. Once I got taller than Grinta, I bragged about it, said I’d beat her in the first game of the winter.”

“And?”

“We were kids,” Jilkist repeats.

“Did someone get hurt?”

Jilkist shakes his head. “Just my pride. She was still more agile, shot past me when I wasn’t looking, and my friends laughed. Of course she was the perfect child, too polite to brag about it even when our parents couldn’t hear, but...” He shivers. “I’d never felt so humiliated.”

“Sounds like you still care.”

“No I don’t! It’s just—it’s not every day a foreign dignitary starts interrogating you on your cambuck failures.”

Mulaghesh yawns. “I need to stretch my legs. Do you mind walking around a little?”

“No,” says Jilkist. “Just, it’s cold.”

“I’d gathered.”

She stays near the car, taking small steps with her cane and watching the fishers. A few bare trees dot the horizon. Jilkist, after a moment, turns the car off and begins pacing too. First back and forth, then slowly wandering towards the lake.

“Careful,” Mulaghesh calls. He does not seem to hear her.

Wrapping her coat tightly around her, she follows his footprints in the snow. They’re bigger than hers, of course, and deeper. But at their bottom is just the pattern of his shoes.

“Jilkist?” she says. “Jilkist!”

“What?” He turns, looking almost irritated. “If you want to fish, or something, we’d better get back to the house.”

“Look at your footprints.”

“What do you mean?” He glances down. “They’re footprints.”

“Yes. Nothing more.”

Jilkist gasps. “How? What did you do?”

“Nothing,” says Mulaghesh. “And yourself?”

“Nothing. Obviously.” He crouches, picks up a wad of snow, clumps it together in his hand. It stays intact. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s get back in the fucking car,” says Mulaghesh, and Jilkist doesn’t protest.

“Miracles,” she continues, as he navigates back, “are adaptable things. Almost like they’re alive. But the big ones, the Divinities’ miracles, they required belief.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know anything about cambuck, but it must have been important to you, years ago. Like you said, you failed. And that still mattered to you, on some level.”

“I’m an adult,” Jilkist says, keeping his eyes on the road. “I don’t hold grudges about kids’ games.”

“But it shook your faith in yourself—your ability to trust your own skill. Seeing that, coming face-to-face with it again...”

“It made me normal,” he finishes. “Will it come back?”

“I don’t know. I suspect not, but I would guess if it does, you’d need a different trick.”

“I’m in no rush,” says Jilkist fervently.

“Well,” says Mulaghesh, “now that this is no longer an issue, I assume you can play some more cambuck and redeem yourself.”

“I’ll settle for ice-cold Telp,” says Jilkist. “At least for today.”

Mulaghesh smiles. “I’ll drink to that.”


End file.
